


On A Whim

by Naemi



Category: American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Episode Tag, M/M, Mild Mentions & Fantasies of Blood, Rape, forced deepthroating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 01:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15132209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: “You can go to hell,” John croaks out.Humming, March unfastens his suspenders. “Why, where do you think we are, my dear friend?”





	On A Whim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agirlnamedtruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/gifts).



> Dear agirlnamedtruth, 
> 
> I very much hope this fic is to your taste. For some reason, these two proved to be very unwilling to comply, but then, that's rather fitting for both this exchange as well as their characters, I suppose ^.^ In any event, I hope you'll enjoy this encounter.
> 
>  
> 
> [Canon-divergence in and episode tag for episode 8: The Ten Commandments Killer.]

“Finish my work, John. Make it your own.”

“I'll get caught.”

“No, no, no, no, no. You won't get caught because you're gonna make yourself lead detective on the case. Do it in loving memory of your only begotten son.”

A flicker runs through John's otherwise vacant eyes: something reminiscent of realization.

The corners of March's lips curl into a smile. Five years and finally, the moment of truth has arrived. The fruit is ripe for picking.

“You're insane,” John says quietly. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink, and yet his posture changes all the same.

March flinches. “I beg your pardon?”

John tilts his head to the side. “You're insane,” he repeats as quietly as before. “I'm not like you. If that's what you thought—if that”—he waves in the general direction of the trophy wall—“is what you wanted from me, you've wasted your time. I want no part in this.”

At those words, a concoction of disappointment and rage starts to brew deep in March's guts and sours his blood at once. The sudden impulse to hurt John out of spite is overwhelming; he pushes at his chest hard enough to shove him into the wall. In the depths of his mind, incoherent thoughts emerge and dissipate again before they find their true form. He clenches his hands into fists: his last attempt at reining in the anger that threatens to take control.

John only stares at him.

How easy it would be to slit his throat here and now, shower in his blood; March can almost smell the copper stench, and a shiver runs down his spine to rekindle a long-forgotten flame in his loins. A diabolical smile paints his lips.

He watches his hand shoot forward as if it's an entity of its own, and electrified by the hiss John gives when he grabs his hair, he jerks his head back. For a moment, he digs his nails into John's scalp. The idea of drawing blood, however unlikely this method, makes March's nostrils flare. He moves in close enough to hear the throbbing of John's pulse.

John's gaze bears a hint of fear now. Beads of sweat start to pearl on his forehead, but he doesn't flinch nor utter another sound.

“I could kill you,” March says in a dangerously cheerful tone that betrays his taste for violent encounters, “as I have no doubt you know. But what, pray tell, would I gain, other than momentary joy? You see, I've invested too much in you to end our relationship on an ultimately insignificant note.” He releases John's hair to place both hands on his shoulders. Faces so close now that their breath mingles, he adds: “Instead, we shall have a lesson in power.”

“Fuck you, you—” John starts and is silenced by a hard blow across his mouth. The force splits his bottom lip, and droplets of blood leave a trail down his chin and over the back of March's hand.

With an ungentlemanly elbow to the solar plexus, March knocks the air out of John's lungs and makes him double over before the man has a chance to regain his composure. An iron grip on his shoulders forces him further down until he's on his knees.

Panting, John grabs at March, but whatever strength—whatever fight—he has still in him is no match to the relentless hands that wrap around his throat.

It's pathetically easy to squeeze the last bit of physical resistance out of him, but it brings March a hint of joy to watch his eyes bulge while his struggling ceases. He squats down to bring their faces level. Loosening his grip around John's neck, he strokes a thumb along his jawbone.

“It doesn't have to be this way,” he says, and his cock twitches as if in disagreement.

“You can go to hell,” John croaks out.

Humming, March unfastens his suspenders. “Why, where do you think we are, my dear friend?” He yanks John's arms forward and swiftly wraps the straps around his wrists—he meets little resistance—then secures the ends with a tight knot. The bond isn't likely to withstand too much struggle, but it's sufficient for now.

March stands again and squeezes his dick through the fabric of his pants. He's almost hard—unsurprisingly. The promise of violent deeds always had a deeply electrifying effect on him, but rarely has he enjoyed a live victim. Today is different; John is different. As he regards his tense features, the burst of anger that prompted him to take action turns into a steady flame, warming, almost soothing, and his mind finds calm focus.

He undoes his pants.

Gasping, John tries to back away, but he has nowhere to go, no place to hide. The wall behind him has him trapped, and his fear—or whichever emotion darkens his eyes—seems to have rendered him incapable of defense. He raises his bound hands to keep March at a small distance and tilts his head to the side, but other than that, he still attempts no fight.

“Is that it?” March says as pushes John's arms back down and yet again meets no resistance. “Are you just going to sit here and take it? Where's your spirit?” He steps forward and lightly, almost playfully, slaps John's cheek with his cock.

John flinches and grunts.

“Come on, John.” March slaps him again, a little harder now. “Be a man. Fight me.” When John doesn't react at all, he cups his chin and forces his head back around. “I dare you.”

John's wide eyes find March's. “I won't give you the satisfaction.”

“We'll see about that.” March presses his fingers into either side of John's jaw to force his mouth open. “I prefer a challenge,” he says, somewhat content with the groan he elicits, “but I can do without for sure.”

John's eyes widen that much more, and then he squeezes them shut when March pushes the tip of his dick past his lips. A snorting sound, like a breath caught deep in his throat and forced out through his nose, escapes him, and March can't help but smirk. He pushes further, expects teeth to bite, and when they but scrape lightly, he pulls back only to push in again.

John makes another choked sound, and March forces himself deeper into his mouth by way of reply, stops only when he hits the back of his throat. He feels the convulsion of the gag reflex and pulls back out completely. No need to hurry. When he looks down, he finds his dick fully hard and glistening wet.

John's bottom lip quivers. Where it's been split from the blow earlier, fresh blood emerges, and March rubs his cock over the wound. He provokes a sharp hiss and is almost content with it.

One of his hand finds its way back into John's hair. “Come on, John,” he teases again. “You can do better, I'm sure.”

“Fuck. You.”

If that's even possible, John squeezes his eyes shut tighter when his head is tilted back until his neck is in a painful strain. He groans, and his arms shoot up to push at March's thigh, but his lips part nonetheless when they're nudged once more.

“You almost have me believe you like it.” A smooth thrust. No resistance. “Do you, John?” Another thrust, deeper now, and another, of the throat-bruising kind. And finally, John's eyes fly open, his nails dig into March's skin.

March brings his free hand to John's neck again, but he exerts no pressure.

“Better now.” He hits the back of John's throat once more and exhales a shaky breath. “Try harder.” With the next thrust, the barrier is almost overcome. He stops, delights in the muscle contractions around his cock, and only withdraws to force himself deeper in yet.

Although blunt, John's nails dig so hard at March's flesh that March is disappointed at finding no blood is drawn, but the satisfaction of seeing John's features warped with pain and shock is still rewarding. Together with the tight-warm embrace of John's throat, it causes sparks of pure pleasure to shoot through March's whole body until they emerge as a rumbling moan.

Unmoving but for his hand that tightens around John's neck ever so slightly, March revels in the sheer terror that is the tears welling up in John's eyes. The choking sounds leaving John's tortured mouth are like classical music to March's ears: virtuous like Liszt, solemn like Bach, alluring like Mozart.

When the concerto reaches its crescendo, March pulls out swiftly and steps back to watch John bend over, supporting himself on his hands the best he can, coughing. For a moment, March is concerned he went too hard on him—the mere thought of spoiling the goods is vexing—but even though John's chest heaves violently, he manages not to be sick.

“It's easier on you if you relax your throat, you know,” March says as casually as if he's giving some fashion advice, while he smears saliva and precome up and down his throbbing dick with smooth strokes.

Slowly, as if forced by an unseen entity, John looks up. The sheer hatred in his eyes would scare an ordinary man, but to March, it's something to connect to, a flame not unlike the one burning in himself.

Turning his head, John wipes the corner of his mouth on his shoulder. “That all you got?” His voice is raspy and broken, like sandpaper and shards.

It's quite beautiful, to be honest.

“Pathetic.” Along with the word, droplets of saliva and blood spray from his lips. “That's all you are and ever were.”

March's face turns to stone. The pressure of his own hand on his dick rises as his initial anger at John flares up again. He would've let him get away with a bruised throat and the taste of shame, but now, he can't.

Now, he's done playing.

With his foot between John's shoulder blades, he shoves his chest down to the ground.

At first, John seems to bow to the force, but then he tries to move away, and as fruitless as the effort may be, March won't have any of that, not anymore. He unfastens the belt of John's bathrobe and loops it around his neck twice with a swift motion.

“I've had enough.”

John's vocal cords produce a sound that may have been an attempt at speaking but is smothered as March restricts the air supply.

The ends of the belt safely in one hand, he slides the other underneath the robe, pushes it out of the way, and then lets his fingers wander into John's cleft. John jerks forward, chokes himself harder, and gives a pathetic whimpering sound when March presses his thumb inside him unceremoniously.

It won't go in easy, so he bends down, spits on John's ass, and pushes harder, deeper, bit by bit. His thrusts, accompanied by flicks of the wrist, make John squirm.

“Five years.”

March withdraws to part John's ass cheeks and watch his hole pucker. The sight sparks an overwhelming impatience in him. He wants—needs—to bury himself inside John; whether this is about John's punishment or his own pleasure, he can't tell anymore. The lines have blurred, as they so often do.

“I wasted five damned years on you.”

He spits again then rubs his cock into John's cleft.

John arches his back and his choked protest culminates when March grabs his hips and forces himself inside him.

The dry heat and reluctance of flesh is a bigger turn-on than March remembers. John is tight, and he's clenching down hard, but it's perfect that way. He imagines the discomfort, the sore anxiety of muscle and flesh, and it makes his eyes cross. He can't tell if John's shallow gasps are a result of his windpipe being squeezed or his struggle to cope, but it doesn't matter either way.

What matters is the feeling of sheer power surging through March when he starts thrusting, deeper and harder each time until he's pounding, until John nearly loses the fight to keep himself steady on his hands and knees on the rough, cold floor lest he choke himself to death.

“How is this for pain?”

John's desperate gasps for air mingle with March's panting.

A particularly deep thrust makes John almost tumble over; the rattling sound of his throat's attempt at functioning is beautiful beyond comparison. It speaks of ultimate terror, and liquid heat surges through March.

He brings the hand that holds the belt to the back of John's head and fists his hair. The rhythm of his hips is frantic now, uncontrolled.

“How is this for power?” 

Sudden amusement bubbles up in his chest when he thinks of John raping this Martin person with that statuette only earlier tonight. Karma works in interesting ways.

And then, as the thought manifests as laughter, violent and ear-shattering, he stills deep inside John, lets the sore, clenching muscles squeeze him through his orgasm.

As the madness subsides, the part of his mind that hasn't gone completely insane over the course of this night realizes that the raspy sound leaving John's mouth now somewhat resembles laughter, too.

March takes it as a disturbingly good sign.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful **Moit** , who also made sure all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Visit my LJ-community [Bunny Bash](https://bunnybash.livejournal.com) to leave me a prompt at any time.]
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


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